write my loneliness in poems
by the drowsy poet
Summary: In the midst of his loneliness, Sirius takes to watching the barista at his (not so) local coffee shop. And, sometimes, the barista watches too. Wolfstar AU. For Paula.
1. Chapter 1

**Hai. First off, I'd like to dedicate this fic to the beautiful _Exceeds Expectations _just for being her perfect self. She's getting quite old now, too, so I decided I must get in there and write her a fic before her hair goes permanently grey. Hope you like it, dear. It is not your Romione, but that will arrive.**

**On another note, this is my entry for the 'Falling in love at a coffee shop' challenge, and yes, i****t will be multi-chapter-ed. Wheee. Also for the Character Diversity Bootcamp: character=Sirius and prompt=obsession.**

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_Start: August the 9th, 9:32 am._

He works the Saturday shift, 9 'til 5.

He pours coffee into cups for strangers for 8 hours straight. Sometimes he cuts a piece of cake, runs the till. He works 8 hours straight for the strangers that pass him the odd-looking coins, and he thanks them with a smile and a "is there anything else I can get you, sir?"

You are "sir" to him. You wrote Sirius on a napkin once, and left it with the receipt. He must have assumed it had been used and disposed of all evidence that could have let him know you. Know who you _are_, who you'll _be._

(Who you'll be _together_)

He thinks you come everyday, and smiling, you let him. In reality the only days you bother putting on a clean jumper and stepping out the flat is when _he_ will pour your coffee. You stay sat at the table with the too-short leg for 5 of his 8 hours. It is seated near a narrow window laid with coloured stained glass. You like the way his face is illuminated with rubies and emeralds and sapphires whenever he comes near, how even jewels as precious as these could never put the amber of impossible eyes to shame.

(Not even for a second.)

In your first four months, you say a total of 7 different words. Amidst the "thanks," the "Good morning" and the "usual, please," you have two left to savour. You choose "Remus" for the first, in the end. He had it on his name tag, typed in crisp black letters. You'd been watching it for weeks beforehand, waiting to see when your lips could utter such poetry - and when they finally could - he smiled.

The second was harder.

"Sirius."

It comes out in a mesh of blurred syllables that aren't meant to be there. You flush, and wonder (momentarily) when he took over your life.

"I'm sorry, what?"

His voice is the rusty early morning lilt you imagine him to possess. It is the lukewarm dregs at the bottom of his cups of Earl Grey, and it is the books thick with years of hopeless neglect. It is the voice of _Remus, _of someone you you have come to know so intimately in your dreams, (nightmares) but of someone you could never know in the hideous state of consciousness.

You cough into your gloved hand.

"Usual, please."

And that's that.

(Yet "that," you learn later, could never be _just_ that.)

(Seven words is much too little.)

_The start's end: December the 9th, 3:07pm._

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**Reviewing means more than seven words. **


	2. Chapter 2

_The start of (what surely should be) the beginning: December the 9th, 3:07 pm._

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You get the usual, and, as usual, you sit.

You have wasted a word. You have used seven, in total, and one has gotten lost in your anticipation. It has rolled off your tongue without anything to stop it, and the tongue in question is suitably punished with the thought of scalding coffee. You do not have the nerve to say anything for at least another two months, you decide.

(This man will be the death of you)

"Sirius?"

The sound rushes into your eyes, and the world stops, if for just a moment. You can hear your name, and it is uttered in his voice (Remus' voice) - the voice with the dusty tea and the lukewarm books - or was it the other way 'round? - but you don't mind, because this is also the voice of early morning kisses, the rusty laughs of tired eyes and a drowsiness only coffee can cure.

"Yes?"

(That is 8.)

"Your name _is_ Sirius, then?"

You gaze at him, feeling as though your senses are heightening suddenly at his mere presence. You can see the cracked surface of chapped lips on a winter morning, the sleep still crusted into his (impossible) eyes. Your first answer ("_Sirius_ly," and a grin) is replaced with another:

"Yes."

(Your 8 has not yet increased.)

"Can I sit down?" He asks.

"Of course."

He does. You notice the rough wool of his elbow patches, the way the paper of his name tag is curling slightly at the corners. He smells of coffee beans and of blueberry shampoo, and, to your delight, the old books you have so often dreamed of. The silence that now arrives is quashed with the thought of flicking through each page, unsticking those that have become one and, you are scared to think, possibly beginning to write.

(You have made it to 10. Books aren't really so much longer than that, are they?)

You decide poetry would be easier. The surrealist inside your head dislikes the thought of boundary, of Oxford-approved adjectives and correctly structured sentences. You want to write with a quill that drips its ink onto the stain of a yellowed parchment, to see _Remus_ come alive before your fingertips and for him to _be_ alive, for him to be alive in the poetry you so love.

You will write his amber eyes into the stanzas - his body is a blank page. Your words spill into seas where you will swim, (together) for he is_ Remus,_ and he knows _at last_ that you are _Sirius, _and now he is speaking and your poetry-addled brain cannot keep up.

"You come here often."

"Yes."

He blinks at you.

"Is that your motorcycle outside?"

The words stop. The typewriter inside of your head ceases its monotonous "_tap, tap, tap,"_ and you blink back at him, eyes wide and confused.

"Yes... It is. You ride, then?"

He chuckles, and the noise should send shivers down your spine. You're distracted.

"Used to. Back when I was in college... my bo - "

He stops abruptly. Almost chastising himself. You make the lopsided grin you know James once said was "a turn on," (as though _he_ would know) and wonder if it works as well on boys - if Remus could fall into such a widely populated (widely _stupid_) category as that - and as soon as you think it, he flushes. Looks down at his hands. There is an ink stain on the tip of his forefinger.

(Where is it from?)

You decide not to pick up on the unfinished word.

(You hope that you're right, that what he said is what you_ thought_ he said, and that you're not just some delusional little boy foolishly picking up on signs that aren't really there.)

(He is looking at you.)

"You should try learn again. T-to ride, I mean," you finish.

His face is wistful: "I'm not sure I could. Not without a proper teacher, you know? I'm quite the liability when it comes to potentially dangerous activities."

He grins, amused at some hidden thought. He points to a space above his left eyebrow: a low gorge of the darkest red, hidden within the depths of his skull. "It's where I got my scar, see?"

You do.

You scratch at the back of your neck, feeling the tender skin raw beneath calloused fingers. The winter sunshine has dimmed, and his face is but illuminated by the warm lights of the cafe. There seems to be a change in the air.

You find there is something close to courage forcing itself up your throat. It spews out your mouth in a tide of over-confident (surely) sentences, and they have dispersed into the air before you can prevent them.

"Shit...that's something," you manage. "S'nothing on mine, though." You pull up the leg of your jeans, (they need washing) displaying a wide space of tanned ankle, scrapes from twigs in the park, a scar even deeper than the one you have just seen. "Rabid dog. I was 8...had to go to hospital."

"And just when I thought I was individual."

He grins at you. There is a slight chip in his front tooth.

(His eyes are like gems.)

"More than me, I'd bet. You work in a _coffee shop_, for Pete's sake. Just _screams_ Mumford and Sons."

You are in wonder at your own confidence.

"Nah, I'm more a Beatles man myself. I like the classics, bit o' jazz. But you...you're a rocker, no? AC/DC? Sex Pistols?"

He is teasing you.

"Am I right?"

"Surprisingly inaccurate, Remus. I like me some Smiths, I do."

"Ah...you're _that_ guy. You write poetry, too? Grow a beard in the summer? Blog about death?"

"Says the movie buff with the secret penchant for 18th Century Literature."

"How is that even a _stereotype_?"

(This is banter, you realise with glee.)

You have an irrepressible urge to reply with _"How are _you_ even a stereotype?," _but decide against it at the last second, choosing in_stead_ a forward:

"Coffee?"

"This _is_ a coffee shop, Sirius."

You stutter out a laugh, and stare at a patch on the table. Someone has spilt open a packet of brown sugar - maybe the person who sat here before you, and maybe not - and with a control far beyond your usual standard, you manage to look up.

"No...I mean _coffee_. To drink. For - for us both."

"I have work to do, you know."

(_Is he disappointed?_ You can't tell.)

"Screw work."

"I'm not sure my boss would agree with you there."

There is a silence - is it companionable? - or does it hold something more sinister? You want to break it, to feel the sounds on your tongue as they fill the empty air, to -

"Okay."

And you do._ Both of you_. You drink his coffee, and so does he, and you talk about things that weren't in your dream-conversations. But these ones are better, you know that, because _really_ they are: _this_ Remus is real and no illusion could have the identical freckle beneath his right eyelid, or the dusting of icing sugar on the right sleeve of his cardigan, or the hair that smells so captivating it hurts you not to pull him in and inhale his scent forever.

When his shift is over, he stands up and extends a hand.

"Good bye, Sirius."

(You don't need words.)

(The next Saturday seems far too far away for you to even consider.)

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_The end of (what surely is) the beginning: December the 9th, 6:57pm_

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**And here ends Chapter 2. I hope you enjoyed it, Paula. Also THANKS to the 4 reviewers so far, you are beautiful. Just a small hint that, uh, reviewing MORE means cake to share. Possibly. I'll even consider a kiss in the near future, but know this: lack of response means NO WOLFSTAR FOR YOU. **

**also I'm at school and people are looking so I'll go**

**adios**


	3. Chapter 3

_An undeterminable point somewhere after the start: Saturday 16th December, 3:00pm_

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The watch on your wrist reminds you that you are early, though the small realisation fills you with anticipation rather than worry, and it's surprising, almost. You have spent a week contemplating whether drowning yourself in the lukewarm depths of the bathtub is a better option than this, though the overriding consequence has been that you merely exited with prunes instead of fingers, and the feeling of being oddly vulnerable.

The door opens with a familiar creak, chimes tinkling in the mild winter wind. He looks up. You catch his eye, and the world stops - if just for a second.

He smiles.

Before you know it it grinds back into motion. It has things to do, people to meet and fates to control. The momentary fire that has kindled somewhere inside your head ceases its throbbing and is extinguished with the tickled breath of the outside weather.

"Remus," you say, and quick step towards the counter. "Ever the pleasure."

"I'm sure," he smiles back at you, then: "what can I get you today?"

You give him your order with a scared glint in your eye that you aren't sure you realised was there, and as he busies himself doing whatever it is he does for the rest of the week - it is unnecessary, surely - you take the chance to look at your surroundings. It is quite beautiful here. Before you must have been preoccupied with Remus because it seems almost impossible now that you ever overlooked such wonder.

(Or, something tells you, you're just caught in the afterglow of his smile.)

You see windows laced with panels of the coloured glass you had previously just assumed were there solely for the illumination of Remus' face. But now they are not just that, for they are the most captivating and intricate of designs twisting and turning into tales it would surely take a lifetime to tell. The winter sunlight casts a spectrum of vivid colours onto the wooden floorboards.

Frames displaying the most surreal of art placed precariously upon every free surface.

Mismatched tables sit strewn haphazardly about the room. There is a large mahogany desk dominating a large section of corner, a scarlet crushed velvet armchair taking up most of its width. A garden table that seems it has been snatched right out of the Victorian era, chairs of twisted iron and steel with patinas indicating centuries of use standing regally beneath it. A floral armchair missing its left leg. 2 rows of seats from an old-fashioned cinema. Coffee tables stained with years of memories, a bookshelf tottering with the weight of a library.

It is either heaven, or you are dreaming.

"Here's your coffee."

_(Yes._ It must be a dream. Your subconscious has always been wildly out of control.)

You take it, ignoring the stab of heat that presses into your hand, and sit down at the desk littered with papers and ink stains and memories you'd explore if it weren't for the man before you.

"Are you going to stay?"

"I was berated for it last time, you know," he says with a look almost reminiscent of your old Matron's.

"That won't stop you either way," you retort. "Now _do_ give me a straight answer, Remus, because otherwise I'm afraid I'll have to withdraw early from this most a_dor_able of endeavours and find myself a - a..." and you shudder, because the mere thought of it terrifies you: "..._Starbucks_."

You are pleased to note his evident revulsion.

"Now that just would not do. I'll have to tell my boss that we were in danger of customer loss and very much probable _death_ if it weren't for my immediate attention."

"Ah, you do learn so well."

(A silence.)

And just as soon and just as quickly as your banter has begun, it stops, because you are both hit with the sudden understanding of what you are doing, and what will come of it, and that this is _Remus_ and you are _Sirius_, and you've only just met.

And do you _care_?

(Yes _and_ no.)

And then you do something, something that despite the certain inevitability of rejection you are sure to receive you still _do_, and maybe that's why you're so infatuated, because you are_ doing,_ not thinking or dreaming or wondering over.

You kiss him.

He tastes coffee on your lips and feels the graze of day-old stubble against his chin, and despite the certain inevitability of misfortune he kisses you back, and you smile into each other's mouths as the alarm bells go off in your head - because _you know what, Sirius?_ You're playing with fire.

And sooner or later, you're going to get burned.

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_A very much determinable point somewhere reaching the middle,_ _Saturday 16th December, 3:14pm. (you're getting quicker.)_

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**a/n: Bonjour, mes petit chous. An update has occurred, oh horror of horror's. It may seem like this is advancing quickly but these aren't necessarily related and, um, TRUE LOVE. Also their lack of hesitance may be somewhat inspired by my viewing of Les Mis on Saturday where Cosette and Marius fall in love the instant they see each other across the square.**

**(poor eponine)**

**Review?**


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